


the look of the honey

by mellyflori



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, everyone's a little aramis-sexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:04:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2482364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The room is dark, the blackout curtains still drawn, but Athos can make out the shape under the blankets.  <i>Dear god, please let him be alone under there.  That’s all I can handle before coffee.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the look of the honey

**Author's Note:**

> I needed something light and fluffy and short.
> 
> Thanks to breathtaken for the nudge, to my favorite menace for being an excellent menace, and to ceeturnalia as always. My devoted comma wrangler is out and I'm impatient, any mistakes are mine and I beg your forgiveness.

They’re late, is the thing. Otherwise he wouldn’t be hunting them up like lost pets.

When Athos comes up the hall he can see Porthos and d’Artagnan standing in the hallway, staring at their shoes and looking an odd combination of shame-faced and perplexed. 

“Dare I ask why we are out here?” 

It’s d’Artagnan who explains. “It’s Aramis, we figured we’d drag him out for coffee. We texted and we've been knocking for ten minutes and all we’ve gotten is one muffled grumble. Porthos gets worried when he doesn’t even answer his texts.” 

“Don’t pin this on me.”  Porthos turns to Athos, "Thing is, even the grumble was five minutes ago. Now he’s just ignoring us.”  Porthos scratches at his beard and there is about them all a feeling of resigned indulgence.

This is just the kind of shit you deal with when you’re on a business trip with Aramis. You don’t leave him alone with the pretty bartenders of any gender and you set his wake-up call for two hours before you actually need him in the lobby. 

Athos gives a disgusted sigh. “At some point someone will explain to me how I went from being a highly-regarded security professional to being the leader of a particularly unruly group of boy scouts.”    

He fishes in his back pocket for the collection of room keys he has. There’s one for each of them because despite his protestations it’s not actually news to him that he’s sometimes as much a minder for his wayward team as his actual clients.

The room is dark, the blackout curtains still drawn, but Athos can make out the shape under the blankets. _Dear god, please let him be alone under there. That’s all I can handle before coffee._

Nothing stirs on the bed as Athos approaches so he flips on the overhead light. With the pen from the beside table he pokes viciously at the duvet-covered lump.  

There’s a muffled grumble from under the bedding but no other movement or sound. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Asshole.  Perhaps I could understand you better if you came out from under there.” 

Behind him Athos can hear the approach of Porthos and d’Artagnan. Having determined that Aramis is not perishing in a pool of blood in the bathroom, they’re now interested to see how the battle of wills plays out. Athos is sure that Porthos’ money is on Aramis. Porthos is going to lose. 

They’re just coming up behind him when the top layer of bedding is flung back and Aramis’ pokes his head out saying, “Fuck. OFF, Athos. It’s Sunday and we’re not on duty and it’s not even nine.” 

Judging from the sharp intake of breath, Porthos has gotten a good look at Aramis’ sleep-mussed hair, his heavy eyelids, how his cheeks are still slightly pink and puffy with sleep. And if the tiny “Guh,” he lets out is any indication, he’s seen the pillow creases going up the right side of Aramis’ face, which should in no way be as adorable as they are. 

D’Artagnan claps a hand to Porthos’ shoulder. Athos can hear the leather of Porthos’ jacket creak as d’Artagnan digs his fingers in. It’s clear that whatever Porthos is watching, d’Artagnan's attention is taken by the line of Aramis’ chest hair stretching down into the shadows of the blankets and sheets. 

Clinging to the last bits of his self control, Porthos is clenching his hands into fists to keep them from reaching out and straightening the necklace laying tangled against Aramis’ throat. He can almost feel Aramis' skin warm under his fingers as he sets the chain to rights. 

When it becomes clear that none of them are immediately leaving the room so that he can go back to sleep, Aramis props himself on his elbows and scrubs at his face with his hands. 

D’Artagnan, who had been moving to come around behind Porthos to Athos’ other side is caught by the sight of Aramis’ hands tugging at his lower lip. Athos is fairly certain the sound that comes next is d’Artagnan tripping over the desk chair and banging his knee into the desk itself, because it’s followed by a muttered, “Fuck. Fuck fuck, ow."

Pinching the bridge of his nose and trying not to sound like a scolding parent Athos says, “Congratulations, Aramis. You’ve managed to compromise the team’s focus and concentration before breakfast. I believe this is a new record. Well done, you.”

Aramis flops the duvet back over his head and there’s another muffled curse. 

“Right, that was in Asshole again. I'll assume it translates as 'Of course, I understand, Athos. I remember that you, as my team leader, got us an earlier flight home and so it's time to go to the airport. Yes, that was extremely nice of you, so I'll put on a shirt before I come down to the lobby in order to ensure d'Artagnan doesn't aspirate on his coffee.'   That's very kind of you, Aramis. We'll see you in the lobby in ten minutes.” 

He stalks out leaving Porthos and d’Artagnan staring at the lump under the blankets. 

Eventually one of Aramis’ feet makes its way out from under the covers, his toes wiggling in the cooler air of the room. He kicks the rest of the bedding away and stands up, arching his back until the waistband of his boxers rides dangerously low and the jut of his hipbones is sharp in the shadowed light. As he heads for the bathroom one arm is stretched over his head and the other is scratching idly at the trail of hair running down to his groin. 

Porthos would assume he was ignorant of the spectacle he presents, except he knows Aramis too well. When the bathroom door closes behind Aramis, d’Artagnan sags against the desk.

Gripping d’Artagnan by the elbow, Porthos leads him toward the door. “C’mon, coffee and stale pastries. Good for what ails ya. And if that doesn’t take the edge off I’ll tell you stories about the time he had bad shellfish and threw up for three straight days.” 

“How… How have you handled this for five years?” 

“Yoga. And whiskey.” He pats d’Artagnan on the shoulder. "Mostly whiskey.”   

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Carol Ann Duffy's [The Look](http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poetry/poems/look).


End file.
